


the general blunder of her existence

by vixen (hestiaandhercat)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Other, basically meta on what their relationship would be the other way round, is it a story? is it poetry? is it a load of garbage? no one can tell, whittaker!master is best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestiaandhercat/pseuds/vixen
Summary: She has always liked hurting people, but she likes hurting him most.Names are irrelevant, as are their forms, as is everything else. The only thing that matters is him and her and his pain.It sings in her veins like a cosmic symphony, an unsteady harmony to the ever-same beat of the drums.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	the general blunder of her existence

She has always liked hurting people.

Normally, when you suddenly go full psychopath, people will start to look at your past, hoping to figure out the exact point when something inside of you broke and you got all messed up, as if knowing the reasoning behind your madness will make you sane again.

But for her, there was no such moment - she has always been fucked up, and she revels in it, needs her madness like she needs the blood in her hearts and the air in her lungs - and the pain on his face.

It’s that pain that feeds her, keeps her alive through the centuries.

She has always liked hurting people, but she likes hurting him most.

Names are irrelevant, as are their forms, as is everything else. The only thing that matters is him and her and his pain.

It sings in her veins like a cosmic symphony, an unsteady harmony to the ever-same beat of the drums.

She makes him kneel before her and call her by her name, the name that means nothing to her and yet means everything coming out of his mouth. It is ecstasy. She wants to burn him and burn her and burn the world around them.

There is so much to destroy, she isn’t sure where to start, but she always knows where to end. He is the most beautiful creature, and even more so when he is in pain.

He is her god and she does onto him as all people have onto their gods once upon a time: she makes him suffer and calls it worship. She drinks his blood with the reverence of a vicar and spits in his face like he has destroyed her world, and in fact he has, because he is her world and every time he turns from her, agony overtakes her stronger than whatever she manages to bring down onto him.

How can she be the torturer and yet still the one who suffers most?

She has always liked hurting.

Her pain is a vicious thing, a gnawing hunger that will end her one day, and the only way to sustain her is to feed it.

She enjoys playing other games in-between the games with him and tells herself that this is proof she is her own person. He is not her whole world, he is unimportant, he is nothing to her.

She tells herself this over and over, but lacks the conviction that comes so easily to her in every other regard.

Other games remain in-between, few and far apart and always _in-between_ , never more than a precourse, a trick to pass the time.

He is the only thing that matters, and she includes herself in that consideration.

What is she, in the grand scheme of things? Nothing but pain and hunger and burning.

He, on the other hand; he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen and that is why she must destroy him, over and over, hoping every time that this will be the last time, that he will finally leave her once and for all, but he never does, and she knows he never will.

Her redemption is to him what his destruction is to her. Always out of reach, always so close.

She would leave herself, if she could. So why doesn’t he leave her?

She has always liked hurt.

She tells herself that this is the reason she enjoys their dance through the centuries, because of the pain on his face, when in reality she knows it is because it is his face, not because there is any amount of pain on it (and there are, at times, frivolous amounts).

She abducts him to their home planet and tells him how she killed their entire race. The suffering on his face is beautiful, but it isn’t enough, it is never enough, nothing is.

She can’t remember a time when she hasn’t been hungry.

Has life always been this, a steady dance around an empty center? Why are they still dancing it? How long has she been dancing?

  
  


She has always. 

She stands in the ruins of Gallifrey and waits for him to kill her. She has arranged for this to happen, she wants it to happen, but looking into his eyes, she knows it won’t, _he_ won’t, and another wave of rage overtakes her, about him, about her, about the world.

“Do it, then”, she says, face twisted because it is what he expects of her.

“Maybe I will”, he says, because it is what he thinks she expects of him, and she does, but they both know he’s lying.

She laughs, an ugly thing that speaks of pain and hunger and the everpresent burning, the flame behind her eyes, the touch that lingers, the moment of _undoing_ that has shaped her entire life.

If only it could end. She wants it to end with so much urgency it makes her sick and scream and smile, but she can’t be the one to end it.

He has to do it, and he won’t because he is weak, compassionate, beautiful.

Why does he have to be so beautiful? Maybe she could leave him alone if he wasn’t so damn beautiful. She wonders what she will do after he decides not to kill her, if she even has any fight left.

  
  


She has.

The hunger always returns, brings her to her knees and makes her realize that as much as she craves death, she will not bring it upon herself. She is not weak, she is not craven, she is a flame that dances with the certainty of a knife, and as long as her death isn’t part of an especially clever plot, she can not allow it to happen.

No, he needs to do it, because he is the only one who ever could, only he won’t because he thinks that they are alike in their suffering, when her pain is nothing she could ever make him experience.

He runs instead of killing her, leaves her behind in a mess of ruins and mutilated bodies, and she wants to fall to her knees and cry, but he has always looked much better kneeling than she does, and so she forces a smile on her face that is as wicked as her sharpest blade and runs after him.

He must know that she will follow and that she will catch up eventually. There is nothing else she could do.

The universe is pain, and he is the only thing that suffers beautifully enough to make her forget herself.

  
  
  
  



End file.
